20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL - THE ROAD HOME
London was illuminated by the broad full moon. The pavements looked
white as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to
the rank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the
faces of women walking the streets to those of calendared saints and
guardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.
In the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall
chosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting.
The time was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out
from the building, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which
they showed to be that of the Story-teller herself. She hastened
across to the carriage, when a second thought arrested her motion:
telling the man-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for
her, she wrapped up her features and glided round to the front of
the house, where she paused to observe the carriages and cabs
driving up to receive the fashionable crowd stepping down from the
doors. Standing here in the throng which her own talent and
ingenuity had drawn together, she appeared to enjoy herself by
listening for a minute or two to the names of several persons of
more or less distinction as they were called out, and then regarded
attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to scrutinize the
latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the journey from
round the corner. When nearly every one had left the doors, she
turned back disappointed. Ethelberta had been fancying that her
alienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as
far as could now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false
one.
When she got round to the back again, a man came forward. It was
Ladywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening. 'Allow me to
bring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten
it,' he said. 'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'
Ethelberta thanked him, and took the book. 'I use it to look into
between the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained.
'I remember that I did lay it down, now you remind me.'
Ladywell had apparently more to say, and moved by her side towards
the carriage; but she declined the arm he offered, and said not
another word till he went on, haltingly:
'Your triumph to-night was very great, and it was as much a triumph
to me as to you; I cannot express my feeling--I cannot say half that
I would. If I might only--'
'Thank you much,' said Ethelberta, with dignity. 'Thank you for
bringing my book, but I must go home now. I know that you will see
that it is not necessary for us to be talking here.'
'Yes--you are quite right,' said the repressed young painter, struck
by her seriousness. 'Blame me; I ought to have known better. But
perhaps a man--well, I will say it--a lover without indiscretion is
no lover at all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in
terms. I saw that, and hoped that I might speak without real harm.'
'You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!'
she said, with the slightest accent of sarcasm. 'But pray do not
attend me further--it is not at all necessary or desirable. My maid
is in the carriage.' She bowed, turned, and entered the vehicle,
seating herself beside Picotee.
'It was harsh!' said Ladywell to himself, as he looked after the
retreating carriage. 'I was a fool; but it was harsh. Yet what man
on earth likes a woman to show too great a readiness at first? She
is right: she would be nothing without repulse!' And he moved away
in an opposite direction.
'What man was that?' said Picotee, as they drove along.
'O--a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter of good family, to whom I have
been sitting for what he calls an Idealization. He is a dreadful
simpleton.'
'Why did you choose him?'
'I did not: he chose me. But his silliness of behaviour is a
hopeful sign for the picture. I have seldom known a man cunning
with his brush who was not simple with his tongue; or, indeed, any
skill in particular that was not allied to general stupidity.'
'Your own skill is not like that, is it, Berta?'
'In men--in men. I don't mean in women. How childish you are!'
The slight depression at finding that Christopher was not present,
which had followed Ethelberta's public triumph that evening, was
covered over, if not removed, by Ladywell's declaration, and she
reached home serene in spirit. That she had not the slightest
notion of accepting the impulsive painter made little difference; a
lover's arguments being apt to affect a lady's mood as much by
measure as by weight. A useless declaration like a rare china
teacup with a hole in it, has its ornamental value in enlarging a
collection.
No sooner had they entered the house than Mr. Julian's card was
discovered; and Joey informed them that he had come particularly to
speak with Ethelberta, quite forgetting that it was her evening for
tale-telling.
This was real delight, for between her excitements Ethelberta had
been seriously sick-hearted at the horrible possibility of his never
calling again. But alas! for Christopher. There being nothing like
a dead silence for getting one's off-hand sweetheart into a corner,
there is nothing like prematurely ending it for getting into that
corner one's self.
'Now won't I punish him for daring to stay away so long!' she
exclaimed as soon as she got upstairs. 'It is as bad to show
constancy in your manners as fickleness in your heart at such a time
as this.'
'But I thought honesty was the best policy?' said Picotee.
'So it is, for the man's purpose. But don't you go believing in
sayings, Picotee: they are all made by men, for their own
advantages. Women who use public proverbs as a guide through events
are those who have not ingenuity enough to make private ones as each
event occurs.'
She sat down, and rapidly wrote a line to Mr. Julian:--
'EXONBURY CRESCENT.
'I return from Mayfair Hall to find you have called. You will, I
know, be good enough to forgive my saying what seems an unfriendly
thing, when I assure you that the circumstances of my peculiar
situation make it desirable, if not necessary. It is that I beg you
not to give me the pleasure of a visit from you for some little
time, for unhappily the frequency of your kind calls has been
noticed; and I am now in fear that we may be talked about--
invidiously--to the injury of us both. The town, or a section of
it, has turned its bull's-eye upon me with a brightness which I did
not in the least anticipate; and you will, I am sure, perceive how
indispensable it is that I should be circumspect.--Yours sincerely,
E. PETHERWIN.'
